


Things We Said Today

by witheyesclosed



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, Longing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Period Typical Attitudes, Recreational Drug Use, Sexuality Crisis, Unresolved Sexual Tension, music as a form of intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:34:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24763948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witheyesclosed/pseuds/witheyesclosed
Summary: Paul is tasked with watching over John while he comes down from a trip. When John makes a staggering admission, Paul begins to question his identity as the nature of their relationship changes before his eyes.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 5
Kudos: 40





	Things We Said Today

**Author's Note:**

> Set in spring of 1966, during the recording of Revolver. Enjoy!

“Why does it always have to be me?” Paul hisses to George, although he suspects John, who’s currently high as a kite, won’t be able to overhear them anyway. “Can’t he go home with you?”

“I’m afraid I have plans,” George responds, failing to hide an impish grin behind his drink. “Besides, you live closest. You’re obligated to take in the vagrants.”

They're at a party in London, at the house of some American socialite, and Paul’s been given the role of babysitter once again. He had a vague sense of dread when he spotted John taking LSD earlier in the day, and it seems his concerns were justified. He’s watched over his bandmate a handful of times now, because despite his protests, he always takes him in the end. Paul likes his life orderly, controlled. The uncertainty of being alone with John in a state like that worries him. However, letting John go home with god knows who worries him more.

Maybe Paul takes him to be a good friend, or maybe it’s because he misses the kind of friendship they used to have. Hours spent side-by-side, engrossed in songwriting or simply enjoying the other’s company. John was like his other half; complete when together and broken when apart. Paul really only sees him at the studio now, and during some opportunities outside of work, like tonight. 

If Jane were there, she’d tell him _John’s an adult,_ and _he_ _should take care of his own problems_ , but what she doesn’t know is that John’s problems always end up becoming Paul’s problems too. It feels like it anyway. They’re in everything together, mentally and emotionally intertwined, and that’s how it’s been since they’ve met.

“So, I hear I’m going home with you tonight,” someone remarks behind him. _Someone_ being John, sounding suspiciously chipper. Paul turns to look at him, takes in his disheveled hair, his flushed skin. He looks like he’s either taken more acid or just had sex. Probably both, knowing John. “My rate‘s 20 quid an hour, good sir.”

“A bit pricey, don’t you think?” Paul asks, tearing his eyes away from John’s unbuttoned shirt collar. “How about a discount?” He bids farewell to George, Ringo, and some other acquaintances, moving through the throng of guests with John in tow. John’s arm is burning hot where Paul’s got a hold on him, and it sends waves of warmth through his own body. 

“Not just any lad can get me in his bed,” John murmurs, and Paul gives him a sidelong glance, trying to determine how tripped out he is. ”But I’ll make an exception for you, Mr. McCartney.”

They receive puzzled looks from some people near the door, and Paul hastens to say, “You’re out of it, John. Just need a good kip, that’s all.” He smiles at the guests, prays no one has a camera out as John stumbles out the door. _Still high, then._ Paul locates John’s Rolls Royce in the drive and awkwardly helps him into the passenger seat.

“I’d prefer if you took me out to dinner first,” John comments, languidly glancing down as Paul struggles to buckle the seatbelt. 

Paul’s face burns against his will, and he almost freezes in place before realizing how that would embarrass him further. “Would you rather go flying out the windshield?” He asks, avoiding John’s gaze as he yanks on the stupid thing.

“Does that normally happen when you drive?” Paul gives John an exasperated look, and his friend smiles roguishly. “Sorry, sorry, won’t cause you too much trouble tonight.” It’s a relief once the seatbelt fastens and his hands are no longer hovering so close to John’s body. He finds himself feeling strangely nervous, but gets in the car before he can think it over too closely.

The drive to Cavendish only takes a few minutes. Thankfully John begins to come down from his trip, albeit slowly, as he still sprawls himself out on Paul’s living room carpet once they arrive.

“I’m assuming Lady Asher isn’t home?” John questions, smiling blissfully with his eyes closed. Paul dodges his outstretched limbs as he puts on a record to fill the silence.

“She’s in America. Couldn’t be farther away.” Paul collapses into a nearby couch, feeling the exhaustion of the past few months coursing through his body as he sighs. The latest album, _Abracadabra_ or _Revolver_ or whatever it’ll be called, is running them ragged. It’s unlike anything they’ve done before, that anyone’s done before, and it consumes his mind like an entity of itself. 

John mumbles unintelligibly, and Paul glances down to see him tiredly running his hands over his face. _It seems the stress has caught up to everyone_. He’s seen John almost every day over the past nine years, but somehow, looking at him now, Paul feels like he’s just seeing him for the first time. Reddish hair sprawled on the floor, fingertips softly tapping along to the music, lips barely mouthing the words of a song he likes. It’s precious moments like these that he appreciates the most. 

“Sometimes I wonder why I’m still with her,” Paul reflects aloud, shifting his stare from John to a painting on the wall.

John props himself up on his elbows and tilts his head as he regards him. “Thought you loved her? What happened to _Here, There and Everywher_ _e_?”

_“For No One,”_ Paul replies, chuckling until he’s reminded of the relationship he’s stuck in. “It’s just not the same with her anymore. Not like with us.” He flushes at his own words, amends, “Friends forever, and all that.”

John sits up, squinting pensively at him. His unrelenting stare used to make Paul self-conscious until he learned the man was half-blind. Now it makes him feel connected to John, like a part of him, but it’s slightly unsettling. “You know,” John admits, “sometimes I wish you were a girl.”

Paul has an urge to laugh, but the fragility in John’s eyes abruptly silences him. He realizes his friend is in no way joking. “Why’s that?”

“Well, so—” John cuts himself off, shifts uneasily, like he’s uncomfortable with his own answer. His words come out awkwardly, rarely exposed vulnerability shining through them. “So that you’d be mine. We could…be together, like.”

It feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. Paul’s heart beats like an alarm, warning him to deny, to run away, to do _something_ , but John’s words leave him paralyzed, and he finds himself staring back with lips parted, stupefied.

“It’s just”—John shakes his head, rubs his arm, and Paul tracks his every movement—“things would be so much easier for us. We _understand_ each other. There’d be no bitter girlfriends or wives to keep stringing along. We’d have each other.” Paul stares at him, mind spinning at the implications of John’s words. “And it would be enough, wouldn’t it?” John stares up at him expectantly, but when Paul remains silent, he looks to the floor with pressed lips.

Paul blinks at him for a moment longer, then fumbles in his pocket for a cigarette so he isn’t just sitting there like an idiot. He feels flustered, panicked, doesn’t understand why he’s reacting so dramatically. John's words have awakened something in him that he doesn’t want to let out. Various responses flicker through his mind, but none convey the hammering of his pulse, or how the temperature seems to have shot up twenty degrees. _He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He must be joking._

“If I were a bird,” Paul finally ventures, pausing to regain John’s attention, “who says I’d be with you?” There’s an endless moment of silence between them until John’s lips quirk and they both break into soft laughter. 

“Oh, fuck off,” John says fondly, lightly hitting Paul’s shin from where he can reach him.

Paul takes a steadying puff of his cigarette. His heart’s still pounding; he blames it on their amusement and not the distinct shift in the room’s energy. “Well?”

“You know you wouldn't be able to resist my charms, dear Paulie.” John motions for a cigarette, and Paul passes him one, trying not to blush stupidly at the nickname. As their fingers brush, John smirkingly adds, “Or my dashing good looks.”

Paul breathes out a laugh, but his hand is burning and John’s eyes are still on his. He leans down to light John’s cigarette, stares at the flame so he isn’t entranced by whatever gleam stares back at him. The brief look they do share makes him shift in his seat uneasily.

“So, what, would we still be musicians then?” Paul questions, resting his head on his hand. “Or would you just keep me around to cook for you?”

“Oh, we can’t go wasting a pretty voice like yours.” His eyes flicker down Paul’s form appreciatively. “But I’d have my way with you.” 

The thought sends his mind spinning. He breathes, “Whenever you wanted.”

“Whenever,”—A smirk touches John’s lips— “ _Wherever_. _However_.” Paul blanches at his words, pushes away the flush of arousal in his stomach. _This is getting too real. Too dangerous._

Paul lets out a nervous laugh, forces a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “If only, right?”

John’s expression loses its playfulness, like he’s upset Paul’s no longer playing along with their little fantasy. “Right.”

They smoke in silence after that, though Paul’s mind won’t stop racing, reflecting on the words shared between them. Even in their most intimate conversations, John’s never been so... _daring_ with him. He’ll toe the line, sure, but never go past it. He didn’t really pass the boundaries tonight, either, but it sure feels that way. For a moment Paul feels guilty, like he’s somehow wronged Jane by having this hypothetical conversation, but he pushes the thought of her away. All they did was talk. Talk and leave everything else between them unsaid.

The smoke seems to sober John completely, as he resolves to push himself off the floor and stamp out his cigarette. He meets Paul’s questioning eyes, hesitating a moment before gently clapping him on the shoulder. The touch burns through his shirt.

“Thanks for the supervision,” John says, “but I should be getting home. Busy day tomorrow, and all.”

Paul follows John’s movements with his eyes, wishing he’d held on a little longer, trying to think of some reason for him to stay. “You sure you're fine to drive? You’re feeling better?”

“Yes, yes,” he assures, swaying impatiently. ”I only took some this morning. No need to worry about me.” They walk together to the front of the house, and Paul lingers with his hand on the doorknob, the cold metal a stark contrast from the warmth of the man beside him.

“All I do is worry about you.” Paul means it to be joking, but it comes out painfully genuine. _Too intimate. Too honest_.

John looks down at his shoes. “Don’t go soft on us now, Paul. We need you emotionless to finish this album.”

“Right.” _Isn’t life easier that way? Without feelings?_ He wants to grab John’s arm, plead with him to stay, but opens the door instead.

”See you at the studio.” John passes by him with a smile, seemingly recovered from their conversation. ”Don’t forget to bring some talent with you.”

Paul’s doesn’t laugh. It’s always like this with John, fleeting moments of intimacy, of true connection, separated by all their artificial interactions. Jokes, banter, but never the truth, _never what they truly feel._ It’s fucking girls in the same room but pretending they weren’t watching each other, breaking down into tears at hotel rooms and forgetting it ever happened. Paul wants to take hold of John by the shoulders and just _shake_ him, make him confront everything between them, every shared glance and every song written for some unknown recipient.

“Don’t forget to be there on time,” Paul tells him, forcing a smile when John squints at him through the darkness. 

“Yes, sir,” John drawls, giving a mock salute as he disappears into his car. Paul’s left alone in the darkness, listening to the fading rumble of John driving away. He thinks of all the things he could have said and done differently, and the possibilities leave him breathless. John’s never been so open with him. Who knows what he would’ve let Paul do to him?

Any real action on his part was prevented by the underlying fear gripping his heart. John’s idle fantasy resurfaced feelings that Paul hadn’t acknowledged since he was a teenager. Things he’d hidden away in the deepest recesses of his mind to never see the light of day. Or so he thought. He’s trampled down so many feelings that he’s almost forgotten what it’s like to _want_ again, to _live._

_I could have kissed him_.

The thought sends a jolt through him and he rushes inside, locking the door like he wishes he could lock away the images flooding his mind. _John, eyes locked on his, running a hand up his thigh; John, brushing his lips against his neck; John, pressing their bodies together, breathing hotly in his ear._

_No, no, I’m not a queer, I’m not_ , Paul tells himself, frantically pacing the hallway. _I’ve got a girlfriend. John’s got a wife. He must have been joking_. _We’re just friends, just mates, that’s it. He must have still been out of it, no matter how sober he looked. He’d never say something like that to me otherwise._

But the truth is staring him in the face, and his own bottled feelings are spilling out of his mind’s confinement.

…

John arrives at the studio on time, but greets Paul last. 

Paul watches from his chair, increasingly annoyed, as John chats with the producers, stops by Ringo’s kit, and then speaks at length with George. They burst into suppressed laughter, like they’ve shared some inside joke, and Paul sharply looks away. He fingers the lyric sheet in his hand, _A Good Day’s Sunshine,_ and finds its optimism repulsing. _Christ, what’s wrong with me? Jealous like a teenage girl, and for what?_

He practices the bassline to distract himself, but before long John is sauntering up to him, guitar in hand. Paul ignores him and continues playing, knows he’s being petulant, but doesn’t care.

“Someone’s in a good mood today,” John teases, hoping for a laugh, but Paul only stares at him with his lips pressed together. Something like recognition flickers across John’s face, and he asks, “You all right?”

Seeing John’s face twisted in concern brushes away Paul’s contempt before he can hold onto it. “Sorry, I’m just...” he pauses, glances away. True honesty is impossible. “I’m not feeling like myself.”

“Hm.” John fidgets with his guitar strap as he sizes him up. “Anything we can do to help?”

_No, but there's something you could do._ “It’s fine,” Paul says, too aware of how close together they are. He stands, grips the neck of his bass to center himself. “Let’s record one of yours today.”

John eyes him suspiciously, but doesn’t pass up the opportunity to have free reign for the day. The studio comes alive once they begin playing, and Paul welcomes the distraction. He’s too focused on playing the right notes to face his own thoughts. That is, until he starts watching John’s fingers moving over his guitar strings and thinks of them moving over him. He stumbles on his bassline, smiles sheepishly as the band throws him a confused look. Paul keeps his eyes down after that.

Things go more smoothly until John beckons him over, where a single microphone waits between them.

“Let’s do the vocals now,” John tells him, adjusting the stand. 

Paul glances between the mic and John, who’s waiting expectantly. “Right now?”

“There something you’d rather be doing?” John challenges, cocking his head.

_Continuing our conversation from last night. Finding out how you would want me, what you’d do to me._ “No.”

“Then there’s no time like the present, is there?” Paul swallows, nods, tries his hardest to clear his mind and focus on the music. It’s a good song, but the sounds of their voices swirl around in his head and he feels lost, like he’s floating away, except for John’s grounding presence next to him. In the conflict of his mind, John’s the only thing he can hold on to.

They watch each other as they sing. John’s eyes don’t leave his, aside from quick glances to the lyric page between them. There’s something brewing in his eyes, an expression Paul can’t place. But John doesn’t back away. Paul thinks that he can’t be the only one who’s grappling with their feelings. Not with the way John is looking at him. _Something’s there. There has to be._

Paul loses himself in the song. He almost feels high, with his body thrumming to the rhythm and the pure energy coursing through him. Between him and John. They’re inches away from each other. Paul can see every detail of his face, thinks of how much he’d like to touch it. It’s only once they record the final take that he realizes how absorbed he was.

“Bloody perfect, that was,” John muses, flushing from the exertion. “What do you think?”

“Perfect,” Paul agrees, admiring the messy swoop of John’s hair, the pink in his cheeks, “and if you weren’t such a critic, you’d see how good all your other stuff is too.”

John rolls his eyes but he's smiling, and the expression sends Paul’s heart racing. They’re interrupted by George Martin, who calls in the band to listen to the playback. John and Paul’s voices dance together seamlessly, as always, chasing each other and meeting in fleeting moments of closeness. _If only we could be this harmonious in real life._ John meets his eyes and they share a satisfied smile, and perhaps, something more.

The day wraps up quickly afterwards. John disappears somewhere, and Paul’s left with no idea what to do. He hesitates outside of Abbey Road, wondering if he should walk home or find John and confront him. Not that he has any idea what to say. _Hey, what you said last night turned me queer and now I can’t stop thinking about you? I think not._ Before he can run home to safety, the decision is made for him. A sharp whistle demands his attention, and Paul turns to see John leaning cooly against his car, cigarette held loosely in hand. 

Paul stuffs his hands in his pockets and steels himself as he heads closer. John’s arms are crossed, but he straightens as Paul approaches, looking oddly self-conscious.

“Can I do anything for you?” Paul asks innocently, like he wasn’t party to the looks they shared ten minutes prior.

John stamps out his cigarette with his boot and holds Paul’s gaze with visible effort. “Come back to mine,” he blurts. 

There’s no explanation, no _I want to show you a song_ , or _let’s discuss the album_. Just a demand that Paul can’t refuse. He searches John's eyes, finds no joke waiting in them. _This is_ _serious_. If anything John looks _scared_ , like he’s afraid of being rejected.

“Alright,” Paul answers, hoping to reassure him. Although he’s freaking out on the inside, John seems to need the confidence. They get into the car, positions reversed from last night. Conversation doesn’t come easily. John keeps his eyes on the road, glasses on, _thankfully_ , and Paul busies himself with looking out the window. Before long the bustling London streets transform into the green landscapes of Surrey as they approach Kenwood. Further and further away from the things Paul knows.

John pulls up to his drive in silence, and Paul’s anxiety only increases as they head inside. The house is dead quiet; no one home except for them. 

“Well, take a seat, then,” John urges on noticing Paul hovering by the doorway. “You want tea or something?”

“Sure, ta.” Paul sits on the edge of one of John’s couches, crosses his legs. He takes the few minutes of separation to center himself as much as possible, remembering how well he knows John, how well John knows him. He’s safe here, he knows that, but his heart still races. _Oh god, oh god, oh god._

John brings the tea and Paul quickly straightens himself, smiling gratefully as he’s passed a cup. The burning sensation in his hands keeps him in the present. John sits beside him, not too close to be touching but closer than he should be.

“Did you, uh, want to show me a song or something?” Paul asks, looking towards an acoustic in the corner.

John follows his glance, drags his gaze back to Paul. He feels pinned in place. “Not today.”

“Then…” Paul swallows, sets his cup down shakingly. “Why am I here, John?”

“You’re that desperate to get away from me?” John sneers, eyes narrowing. “Don’t play dumb, Paul. We both know why you’re here.”

“I’m not trying to get away from you.” Paul rubs along his forehead, feeling like he’s hitting a wall. “It’s—it’s the opposite, really.”

“Oh?” John remarks, though he sounds less agitated. “Then tell me what’s going on with you.”

Paul looks into his eyes, wishing he could communicate his feelings without saying them aloud. “You’d think me mental. You...you wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand you better than anyone,” John counters. “Is this about last night?” When Paul’s eyes dart away, he goes on, “Did I make you uncomfortable? With what I said?”

Paul’s mouth has gone dry. They’ve broached the subject consuming his mind, the point of no return, and there’s no avoiding it. The future of their intricate relations rests on his shoulders. “Not…not uncomfortable, no,” he concedes. _Confused and aroused, maybe._ John’s lips part, but before he can speak Paul blurts, “John, please, I can’t talk about this—“

And then John’s rushing into him, knocking the breath straight from his lungs as he crushes their lips together. The kiss is rough and hard, but the feeling of John against him is thrilling, all-consuming. It’s the high of performing before 50,000 people, the excitement and the energy and the passion all in one. Paul’s senses are so overwhelmed he can barely comprehend that _John is kissing him_ before he’s released. 

Paul searches John’s eyes frantically for proof he’s not dreaming. But somehow John is there, half-lidded eyes an inch away from him, and _it’s real_. “John,” he breathes, dazedly glancing down at his mouth before pressing his lips to his again. It’s softer than before, and he wishes he could savour the feeling of John against him forever. It feels like every unspoken desire of the last nine years explodes through them in that moment. 

John moves his hand to the back of Paul’s head, slightly pulling his hair as he tries to deepen the kiss, and Paul releases a breathy whine at the feeling. He brings his hand to John’s face, touches him like he’s always wished he could. The slight stubble and angular edges of his face are unfamiliar, but more fascinating than foreign. It feels like a fantasy, that the John who acts so tough can be touching him so tenderly now. John leans him back against the couch, slowly, and the press of their bodies sends his head swimming. He feels himself hardening, but he’s too high-strung to be embarrassed. 

Their actions grow more desperate by the second. John runs a burning hand under his shirt; Paul revels in the friction as they shift against each other. He pulls away for a moment, breathless, and recognizes unmistakeable lust in John’s eyes, which are dragging down his body. Paul wets his lips and tentatively reaches a hand between them, running a hand along John’s belt. His pants are unmistakably tented; the sight leaves his mouth dry. _God, I did that, didn’t I?_ John’s eyes darken as he watches Paul’s hand below.

“Do it,” John utters, voice stretched tight. He sounds wrecked already. Paul holds eye contact with him as he undoes the belt, unzips his trousers. The reality of what he’s about to do makes him hesitate. John brushes a hand against his face, murmuring, “Paul…” It’s enough to spur him on and he slips his hand in John’s underwear, grasping him with all the courage he can muster.

The strangled groan he receives gives him a rush of pleasure. Paul tries to copy what he likes done on himself, fervently watching John’s face, and it seems to be more than enough. While John is utterly consumed, eyes closed in ecstasy, Paul leans closer and brushes his lips against the warm column of his throat. John makes a pleased noise, and opens his eyes to fumble with Paul’s pants.

Paul swallows in a dry throat, watches John’s actions dazedly. His touch isn’t gentle; it’s firm, desperate, but brimming with passion. Paul bites back a moan at the feeling of John’s hand around him. “God, John,” he pants, watching their wrists move in tandem. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen. “I—I can’t believe—“ 

He’s cut off with a heated kiss that translates how close they’re both getting. They’re pressed against each other, breathing the same air and living the same experience as one. “Come on Paul, come on,” John encourages, chest heaving against his. “I want to see you.”

It’s enough to send him over the edge. Blood rushes in his ears and Paul finishes with a strained cry, holding onto John for dear life. He recovers for only a moment before turning his attention back to John. He’s not far behind, and with Paul purring, “Johnny, Johnny,” in his ear, comes in a few more strokes.

They’re left panting against each other. Paul’s mind is spinning from the sight of John so dishevelled before him, and the knowledge that _he_ made him that way. He distractedly wipes the mess of their orgasms on his pants, relishes the burning in his wrist. They fix themselves up again, and John extracts himself from their tangled limbs to lean back against the couch, eyeing Paul with renewed fascination.

“Told you I understood,” John remarks. Paul breathes out a laugh, still reeling from the experience. He reaches into his back pocket for two cigarettes, lights them. He wants to kiss John again, but refrains out of the uncertainty of their relationship. _Friends engaging in a one-time indulgence? A full-blown affair? How can we stop now that we’ve discovered something so spectacular?_ One thing is clear: things will never be the same between them.

“This whole time, I thought it was just me,” Paul says. “I thought something was wrong with me.”

“Well, then something’s wrong with the both of us,” John quips wryly. It’s an acknowledgement that he’s not alone, that even in his darkest moments John has been there with him. 

“I don’t need to be a girl for us to be happy,” Paul tells him, wishing it true. John presses his lips together at the reminder of their predicament. “Things will be hard for us, I know that, but…” _it’s worth it if I have you. I can’t live without you._ “We’ll make it through. We always do.”

“I hope so,” John says, taking a long drag of his cigarette, “I really do.”

…

They see each other whenever possible. It’s not as often as Paul likes, but it’s better than being walked in on by Jane or Cynthia. John tells him he’s going to get a divorce. Paul says he won’t propose to Jane, no matter what the tabloids suspect. They hang on to the prospect of a future where they don’t need to live in guilt or fear any longer.

Everyone around them is so busy finishing the album that no one notices the change in their dynamic. Or at least, no one cares enough to say anything. The haze of the drugs they’re all on prevents too close an inspection. It’s enough.

People say the next album is going to be amazing, with all the time they spend together songwriting. However, their moments alone are rarely spent working. Being with John is like discovering music for the first time, a lifelong thrill that never ends. Paul dedicates himself to learning everything John likes, every nuance of pleasure possible. He won’t let himself say the word _love_. John never says it, so he doesn’t either. But every day, even when they’re apart, is made one worth living with the knowledge that someone out there cares. Even when stress overwhelms them, even when they argue, they return back to each other. In the end, the depth of their relationship surpasses all differences. 

It’s easy to write songs for John because he’s been doing it for years. Music becomes the only way to express their affections safely in public. Paul hopes that when John listens to his lyrics, he hears the words he’s unable to speak aloud. One day he will.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This was my first contribution to the incredibly complex relationship between John and Paul. I hope to write more for them in future. Any feedback is welcome!


End file.
